


A Cold New Dawn

by Fanfics_and_Frapps



Series: Red Blood on Silver Roses [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13710375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfics_and_Frapps/pseuds/Fanfics_and_Frapps
Summary: Pain, agony, suffering... such is the life of the torturer. It's not her own pain, of course- though she would most likely revel in that, too. Sadism, masochism, all familiar friends in her mind. But something must lie beyond that. There must be something.But now is not the time for sentimentality. King Robert Baratheon grows fat and weak, and blood is in the air. Ambition runs like a fast-flowing river amongst Westeros, from the Starks in the North to the Lannisters in the South. People will die. Minds will break. And she is ready.





	A Cold New Dawn

* * *

_**Chapter I - A Cold Red Dawn** _

* * *

Jaenis paces slowly, strides long and confident. Circles, she walks, boots clacking on the bloodstained stone floor. Finally, the poor bastard in the shackles raises his head. "Please... please stop... I'll give you everything I have!" His voice gains in pitch and volume, desperation clawing at him, writhing and thrashing like a dog in a bear trap. In a heartbeat, she is there in front of her prisoner. 

"Make me another offer." A swipe of a dagger, and a finger is gone. There are nine fingers left on his hands, blood pouring from the cleanly sliced wound. He screams in pain, too occupied with the loss to think of her order. Now, eight fingers remain. Her face is stone cold, awaiting a response. 

"My... my wife... I'll sell her... I'll give her away... I don't care..." Seven.

"Faithless pig. Another."

"I'll give you my land... my money, my titles...."

Six. "Worthless. Another." He is howling at this point, blubbering like a madman, staring at the mangled lump that is his hand. 

"What do you want from me!?!?"

She leans closer to his face, a flyaway strand of white blonde hair framing her face for a moment. "A confession."

He is incomprehensible for a moment, spewing words and screams and pathetic sniveling. Eventually, he pulls himself together, and says- "I'll do it... Just please, stop..."

Jaenis knocks on the door, and a smug Margaery Tyrell struts in, the lavish silks of her gown lifted above the mess occupying the floor of the torture cell. She leans close to the man in chains, whispering a private conversation. Finally, as the unnamed man sags in defeat, Margaery pulls Jaenis to the side.

"Well done, dove. I haven't had this good of a torturer since, well, a Bolton. I do hope you'll join me in the gardens later." 

"But of course, milady." Jaenis smiled inwardly. They would dispense with such pleasantries in a few hours, when the sun goes down behind the Red Keep. 

 

* * *

Jaenis grimaces as her handmaiden pulls the laces of her corset taut. _'It's not as if I need it for my figure. I already have that trait perfected...'_ Finally, the gown is done up, and a poisoned dagger tucked neatly beneath the skirts. _'_ _Just as a precaution, of course.'_ An evening musician plays somewhere _,_ the sound drifting through the stone halls of the Red Keep. The royal gardens lie in terraces around the Tower of the Hand, cascading with plants of all kinds, cascading in waterfalls of green until they reach the broad walls that sequester the keep well away from the rest of King's Landing. 

Making her way down, with tall posture and confidence exuding with every step, the heady aroma of flowers wafts through the air, infusing it with a sort of refreshing tinge to the atmosphere that she wouldn't have found anywhere else. Quiet humming could be heard- a somewhat familiar tune, Jaenis supposed, smooth and slow. It lured her through arbors of roses and climbing vines, the thick scent of Dornish jasmine clinging to her like an aura. 

On a bench, with a rose twirling between her fingers, sits Margaery, a loose silk shawl draped over her bare shoulders, and cascading to the ground.

She stands, eyes soft and shrouded, stepping close enough to Jaenis that the latter can feel the warmth of her body. Margaery's lips drift to Jaenis' ear, her voice sultry, almost erotic. "Evening, dove."


End file.
